


dark star (i see you in the morning)

by hlulu



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, Artsyteez is a thing now, Choi San is Whipped, Derogatory Language, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, I Wrote This While Listening to 808's & Heartbreak, I'm Sorry Park Seonghwa, Lowercase, M/M, Museums, Not Beta Read, Pining, Power Dynamics, Self-Esteem Issues, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26793664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlulu/pseuds/hlulu
Summary: san is in love. and boy, it's beautiful. really. (or it would be if his whole life wasn't a series of unfamiliar places and situations he'd somehow gotten lost in.)
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, Jung Wooyoung/Park Seonghwa
Kudos: 17





	dark star (i see you in the morning)

**Author's Note:**

> probably the most self indulgent au i've ever written, ever. artsyteez is a thing now.

in front of a windowed wall, san gazes upon the restless city while adjusting his cufflinks on his wrists, brows a little furrowed. he watches the snow that falls gently outside the mmca, silently spiralling on the streets in the early hours of the morning. 

his head aches with a dull throb.

he tries not to think about that, though, especially right now, because he needs to focus on his script, and it’s the first snow of the year and it’s sort of beautiful, and wooyoung waves at him from across the room, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold. it almost knocks him off his feet, how beautiful of a sight he is, so he casually lean against the railing so he doesn't fall down the stairs.

"um, should i be insanely insulted that i'm not invited to this party that you're attending to at seven-thirty in the morning?" wooyoung asks with a smirk, still cleaning snow out of his hood and shoulders. "you look like you own a _côte d'azure_ summer home and a pomeranian dog named gatsby."

san blinks. "that— that is weirdly specific, wooyoung."

"this whole energy right here," he ignores his comment, gesturing towards san. "yes. chef's fucking kiss." 

san rolls his eyes looking down at his dark-blue navy suit, camel hair coat and shiny shoes. "some government sponsors are coming today. kind of a big deal, actually." he drawls. "i need to make an impression or else they'll think everyone working in visual arts and cultural sectors smells."

"oh," wooyoung waggles his eyebrows. "are we finally getting our hands on the niki de saint-phalle that the first lady has in her living room?"

"no, i don't think you're that lucky," san says, grinning crookedly. wooyoung punch his arm gently. "i heard upstairs talking about expanding the west wing, probably something related to the exchange programs we're launching next semester, and i think we'll be getting more help from them if we look desperate and pretty enough."

"well," he scoffs, "i mean, fucking finally? we really need some extra hands down there. and i'm not just talking about conservation centers. we're really dry on historians too." wooyoung says, his hand reaching up to straight san's dark tie and collar. "anyway, are you planning to seduce them with your intelligence and expertise, then kill them with your smile?" 

san swallows before speaking again.

“yes. quite literally yes.”

then san is lost again. lost in his laugh and his antics and the way that his hands were so close to the skin of his neck and face and suddenly all he can think of is _god i'm so fucking gay for him it's not okay_ and he can feel a drop of sweat drip down the midline of his chest, making him awkwardly squeal and causing him to lose his balance momentarily. 

wooyoung holds him by the shoulder and peers over at him with concerned eyes. 

"woah, dude are you alright?"

"i, um, this, this fucking coat. it's hot. i'm burning inside." he spat out before he could decide on a convincing lie. his jaw is tense and his hands are sweaty, and so many things run through his mind that he can't focus clearly. wooyoung is _too_ close. it feels like summer heat inside his chest. 

"hey, look at me." wooyoung orders, his voice hard. "did you come prepared or i'm gonna have to call you a bad word?"

"of course i came prepared." san replies quickly, thinking about his little script that he'd be working on as a matter of high priority throughout the night, and not getting almost any sleep because of it. 

"then you're going to be fine." the smile that dawns on his face then is dazzling. san just wants to look at him until his eyes start burning red and he can't keep them open any longer. "don't worry too much about it, okay? i know how your brain works, so just take it easy before you get yourself one of those deadly migraines."

san laughs humorlessly as he feels his head throb even harder than before. "i'd say it's a little late for that."

“jesus, san.” wooyoung crosses his arms over his chest. "i bet you got no fucking sleep—”

"wooyoung." san interrupts, voice steady, trying to give his friend the best impression of a smile he has. "it's fine. i'm feeling way better now. thank you." 

he lies, but everything else tuned out of his mind, and almost as if it is magic, he actually _does_ feel a little better. then wooyoung is telling him to get his ass high on ibuprofen before the big presentation and san is laughing and telling him that ibuprofen can't get anyone high, as his friend objects vehemently. then wooyoung looks startled at his wristwatch and bolts to the next floor, where he'll be confined in a small room the entire morning pumping a bunch of restoring chemicals on a lost bauhaus that a young woman found hidden in her grandma's basement that he was working on with his team. but not before saying "break a leg, sani!" with both thumbs up.

san nods numbly watching wooyoung go. nervously, he pushes his hair behind his ears. it was getting long, longer than he ever thought it would grow without putting any effort to it, but he didn't mind. his friends liked it, (mingi said he would look nice with a mullet so solemnly that he didn't know if he was joking or not) so san hadn’t scheduled a cut. it's clear that there's a growing list of things getting out of control in his life that he just goes on pretending everything is okay and manages to put those thoughts aside for at least another day. but he can't think about those things right now. not at work. not when his head is buzzing like crazy. not when all he can think of is wooyoung rosy cheeks and his beautiful fingers tracing that stupid tie.

he's sure he is hyperventilating now, holding the railing with both hands for dear life. it's all wooyoung's fault.

san is, without a doubt, living one of the most important moments of his brief and enthusiastic career. at age of twenty two he got himself a promotion as a curator manager of the entire east wing of the national museum of modern and contemporary art, in seoul-guan. when his supervisor gave him the news four month ago, he thought she was deep on heavy drugs with no point of return. she just laughed at how his face must have looked and told him that he deserved the job. _he deserved_ . he'd never felt so proud of himself before, he realised, a strange, unfamiliar sense of accomplishment and worth blossoming through his chest. yunho and mingi got him so drunk that night (with a very, very suspicious tequila named 'diablo's tears' _, who even drinks that?_ ), he doesn't have any memory of the next sixteen hours that followed. wooyoung says he tried to climb the n seoul tower wearing a horse head mask and almost got himself arrested for disturbance of the peace, but san thinks he's just messing with him. 

he started working on mmca since his first year in college and, five years later, he actually has a good job and a nice paycheck, enough to rent a pretty decent apartment near the museum that he shares with his friend, and more responsibilities than the majority of his friends his age. he's happy and smiling to himself every time he remembers that being a museum freak since high school had finally paid off. 

and that's where his focus needs to be right now. the good part. the best part. the only thing that he hasn't screwed up yet. 

when his head pulses as he moves it, and he presses his palm to his forehead, trying to keep the pain from spreading, he's taken from his thoughts and drawn to the cold breeze coming from the doors opening and closing. 

he blocks the pain away, a killer smile appears ready on his lips. and he's off to seduce some suits. 

***

it turns out that government suits know absolutely jack shit about contemporary art. and it's not even their fault, really. most powerful people within the government think that his museum isn't _that_ big of a deal, so there's actually no mouth to mouth propaganda, or any sort of effort whatsoever, unless they're close to the elections or there's some real palpable profit on sight. they understand expressions like "cultural relevance", "community identity" and "research and evaluation staff" but they can't name a single korean artist from the twentieth century, whose paintings are literally hanging on the walls. so, in the end, it's easier than he thought it would be. because— well, because they _get it_ . museums are important and expensive. they require proper funding for maintenance and repairs and exhibits and conservation or else tourists and artsy snobs won't be very happy about it. but they also don't _get it_. at least not like he does. so he takes a deep breath, mentally counts to ten and tells them about every single thing he can think of that'll make their eyes shine. his script is perfectly adjusted inside his pulsating head and he aces every topic and answers every single question with the eloquence of a goddamn sophist. (and if the glances one of the government ladies was throwing at him had meant anything, they'd probably get the money for sure.)

but even after everyone is gone and he's alone and out of the fucking camel hair coat, his headache is still against his very existence and his brain feels exactly like an explosive pudim. explosive pudim going _tic tac tic tac,_ ready to come out of his eyes and ears in bursting waves of painful blows. that is when he gives up and sits next to a bench near the gallery 2, where the korean war 70th anniversary's exhibition is taking place, and waits for death. he can almost see the light.

"that, uh, looks really uncomfortable."

san winces as his friends' deep voice pulls him from his morbid last thought, "i just need a moment."

"you need to go home," he warns, sitting next to him. "you look hella fancy, by the way, but— zombified."

san shakes his head _very_ slowly. "i just got here." he trails off.

the museum researcher furrows his brows and slightly opens his lips to speak, but closes right before he says something that will plunge him under an avalanche of trouble. "choi san."

"kang yeosang."

"this looks like one of the big ones," he says carefully, studying him.

san struggles for a moment to find words.

"it is one of the big ones. but i've got to—"

"i'm calling wooyoung."

"what? _no._ why?"

"because if he says you need to go the fuck home," he says, pulling his phone from his pocket, "you'll listen." 

"yeosang, wait," san runs a hand over his hair—which is perfect, of course, some product in it that makes it fall just right, like something out of a magazine, and says, "fine."

"fine, what?" 

"i'm leaving." 

"really?" one eyebrow perked.

"yes."

"i don't trust your workaholic ass." 

"right. okay. i’m lying," he sighs, "but please don't call wooyoung." he shudders as his voice grows thick.

yeosang twists and holds san's face in his hands. "i love you but that won’t stop me beating your ass. you know that, right?"

"i know," he closes his eyes, "you're right."

"well,' he smirks, "i'm always right. now tell me what is really going on."

san wants to tell him. he really does. he wants to tell someone, anyone, and he trusts yeosang the most because he is one of the good guys with nice and insightful advices and not so nice wake up calls. he needs someone to tell him what to do because he can't think of anything right now. he's not ready to face the fact that he is so in love it physically hurts being near that person every day. 

"it's just too— complicated? to explain right now?" he sighs, his mouth suddenly feeling desert dry. “i'm sorry.” 

"i can handle complicated," yeosang frowns, smoothing the hair back from his face. 

“i know,” he whispers and he feels even more stupid. 

a gleam appears in yeosang’s eye, but he gets to his feet ready to leave him alone with his thoughts, "i’m only one floor away, okay? if you need anything, anything at all, you scream.” 

san nods. “and what if i need someone to repeatedly bang my head against the wall?” 

a faint smile crosses his face. “it would be my pleasure.”

***

so, san is in love. 

he loves a lot of things, actually. he loves rimski-korsakow's _flight of the bumblebee_. he loves frozen bananas with pistachios, dark chocolate, mango sorbet and roasted coconut. he loves to dance alone in his room. his old nintendo ds. buying plants at the flea market. the first sleeveless summer. being called photogenic. his small obsession with cher. practicing yoga on a gloomy morning (and lighting a candle and drinking a cup of ayurvedic kapha tea with honey and lemon). that one time he discovered a piotr socha's illustration at wortwahl bookstore in munich? loves it. 

he loves his coffee black, really strong. he loves his friends. his sister. he loves a fat, fluffy red cat his old neighbor has. he loves performing tenacious d's _fuck her gently_ on the karaoke, drunk out of his mind. 

he also loves this vivid dream he had once, about dangerous skyscrapers (just different floors stacked loosely on top of each other) and a kidnapping in a futuristic car by very glamorous gangsters, with lesbians on a scooter trying to save him.

san loves the mmca. his job. his city. 

but none of these seems to matter as much as it used to because something (everything) shifted inside of him and now he is in love. 

san is _in love_.

and boy, it's beautiful. really. (or it would be if his whole life wasn't a series of unfamiliar places and situations and feelings he'd somehow gotten lost in.)

san is also very stressed, because of all the people in the world, he's in love with wooyoung. and it hurts like hell just to think about it.

the revelation comes to him on a shitty sunday morning when it’s too early to live. except it's not much of a revelation, but more of a realization that the glass he’d left overnight under the leaky faucet has overflowed. except he'd left this glass for years, unattended and out of sight, that he’d almost forgotten its existence had it not been for the sudden slew of butterflies fluttering wildly in his stomach when his best friend walks in his room, venting with arms and high pitched voice about the last episode of gilmore girls that he saw.

and that's when he thought, _oh, oh, oh no,_ because the glass containing his feelings for him has finally overflowed and drowned out every other thought process in his brain that isn’t just a litany of _shit shit shit_ continued ad infinitum.

san is horribly and unrequitedly in love with his best bro. he is, as they say, fucked. and there's nothing he can do about that because—

“what’s with the frown today?” is the first thing mingi says to him, because san apparently couldn’t catch a break.

work goes quicker than usual for san this day, which is decidedly welcome. when mingi arrives at the start of the afternoon shift, san decidedly manages to give himself another break near the _terarosa coffee_ , where a couple of art students are sipping their matcha lattes with oat milk, enthusiastically talking about the digital exhibition "basquiat and the bayou" from last year and how technology has changed the way people visit museums.

san sighs, staring down into his cup of coffee. "i'm seriously thinking about going back to smoking."

"the hell you are," the designer snorts while adjusting his backpack on his shoulder. he's wearing a henri matisse's _la danse_ shirt under a heavy coat and his hair is bright red again, and san feels like he can spot him from every corner of the museum. "no way i'm living with a smoker."

"song mingi." he sneers. "you _literally_ smoke weed everyday."

"but cigarettes can actually kill you." he shrugs, matter-of-factly. "and that's not why you're upset. i've known you since before i was a pothead. spill."

and he wants to tell him too. but you see, mingi is not really a wooyoung fan to begin with. he can deny it all he wants, but san knows better. he is a little jealous of their friendship because, obviously, he was there first. he's his first friend. the best one. he's that type of friend that you find once in your life and you never let it go, and even though you'd spend your entire college years apart (mingi's parents had sent him to paris to attend the same art school they went twenty years ago), you find your way back to each other arms as you decide to share a two bedroom apartment when you both find out on a rainy day that you're going to be working together at the mmca every mondays and thursdays.

san wants to tell him, he wants to cry out _mingi, i love him. i love everything about him. i love him so much i realize i'm losing myself day by day,_ but it's not that simple. so he bites his bottom lip and tells him a half truth.

"migraines."

and mingi is deadly silent beside him before he lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.

"go home then. i can cover gallery 4 for you."

"can't. i promised i'd give wooyoung a ride later."

"where?"

he swallows down the thickness in his throat, "seonghwa's."

mingi raises an eyebrow at him questionably, pushing his glasses up to the top of his head. "so what? he can get an uber or something."

"yes, but i— i promised him."

it was yesterday and they're facetiming like they always do. wooyoung is bright eyed ranting about how _dr. stone_ is probably one of the best pieces of visual media ever created by human hands and suddenly he has a frown on his face and san's body tenses in response. he asks him what's wrong and wooyoung says that he misses his boyfriend who lives on the other side of town. _relax, i'll give you a ride tomorrow, crybaby,_ he catches his stupid mouth saying the words before his brain can even process what the fuck is that even supposed to mean. and wooyoung is saying _no, no don't even bother with that,_ and he comes up with a perfect excuse saying that he really needs to grab a beef vindaloo from this indian place only a block from seonghwa's building. he promises that is not going to be a problem at all and wooyoung smile is so bright so warm so full of teeth that he feels like he's losing his mind. and he wants to punch himself in the face because that is just— it's a whole new level of depressing.

(mingi would kill him if he knew. literal first degree murder. yunho would just laugh for two uninterrupted hours. jongho would tweet something without mentioning him and yeosang would probably just stare and wrinkle his nose, trying to figure out how his species had survived evolution.)

"okay," mingi nods, eyeing him suspiciously, "so now besides being his babysitter and his cook, you're also his chauffeur."

"i'm not his anything." san replies a little too hastily and his left eyebrow lifts a little. "i mean— i'm his friend. do you have a problem with that?"

mingi sniffs, turning his head a little to the side so that he can give him a bland stare.

“do you want the alphabetical or chronological list?” 

san laughs humorlessly. "shut up. i do the same for you all the time."

"um, sure, and just out of curiosity, are you going to pick him up when he's finished sucking his instagram famous boyfriend dick too?" 

_oh, that's low._

"jesus, mingi."

"just a simple question." he blinks innocently. 

seonghwa isn't just instagram famous. he is an exceptionally gifted dancer and a model and a highly paid influencer that has become so overly famous that every magazine has his name scrawled over it nowadays. and wooyoung had met him in a protest rally for transgender rights at the city hall area and it was love at first sight and san was so happy for him back then, but he always thought the love at first sight story was a bit of a stretch. and now he knows better, he knows he's just a poor jealous son of a bitch that will never have a chance with his best friend because he's dating the equivalent of a rare comet making a rare appearance in the sky.

(yunho said once that park seonghwa was 'a bugatti royale if it was a person.' and san is just— san is a toyota.)

"you know what?" he starts, losing some of his nerve. "with all due respect to you," 

"which is none."

"...will you kindly go fall off a fucking cliff and leave me alone?"

mingi laughs, a laugh that dissolves into a cough before he manages to choke out, "oh my god san, do you _like_ him?"

and now his head is throbbing badly again and his throat is raw and he's so mad at mingi that he wants to turn around and leave his friend talking to himself because all he wants to do is tell him _yes! i like him_ , _i'm in love with him, please help me kill park seonghwa and hide his body_ but instead he gives him this awful glare like he didn't know what he was saying. 

" _what?_ "

"do you like him?" he repeats himself more slowly, like he's talking to a child.

"he's my best friend, of course i like him." san blurts out sheepishly.

mingi rolls his eyes. "yeah, no shit. that is not what i ask, though."

"then i don't know what you want me to say." he trails off, his skin stinging. "stop being weird."

mingi raises his hands theatrically, as if he's saying _i give the fuck up on this dude._

"i only hope you won't end up in a house full of cats and no human partner on sight," mingi says as he uses the front camera of his phone to rearrange his hair, fingers gingerly brushing them back into place.

***

they're in the car and it feels like pure torture. 

san is driving at a good speed and he can smell his cologne and his excitement from the seat next to him and all he can think of is _i want to kiss the living daylights out of my best friend_ as he inhales so deeply his chest aches. then wooyoung starts singing along with a david bowie song that comes on the radio and san smiles to himself because he can't stop it. and now he's singing along too, laughing all the way as he rocks back and forth on his seat, because of course he knows the lyrics, wooyoung loves bowie and he loves wooyoung and he is happy because the guy who he's in love with is going to get laid tonight.

" _fuck me_." 

"what?" wooyoung asks, slightly turning the volume down.

"nothing." san says, noticing the curse he said in his head was actually out loud, "i said i love this song."

"my impact," wooyoung lips quirks upward as he jokes and everything is alright again. five seconds later he adds, "you're a life savior, san."

"it's nothing" san assures him, heart speeding up as he grips the steering wheel tighter. 

"next time you decide to get your ass kicked at the arcade, drinks are on me." wooyoung pats his head like he's ten years younger than him.

and san snorts, almost choking. "d-deal."

when they arrive, there's a weird and unusual silence filling the car, as neither of them seems to be making an effort to move. he hates this silence, almost as much as it seems hateful to him.

"well," san is the one to break first, "here we are."

"yes." his full lips are curved upwards in a smile that doesn't meet his eyes. "here we are."

and san can feel the heat rising up his face and as he dares to look at his friend. wooyoung shifts in his seat, his eyes gazing into his, slightly confused, like he's trying to figure something out. something that is hidden somewhere deep inside this silence.

"how— how's your head going?" 

"i've told you already, i'm fine." he lies, looking at his own hands. "you're going to be late."

"right, yes. sorry." his eyes get that really soft look to them and he has a slight blush on his entire face and san really wants to reach up and caress his cheek with his knuckles, but all he manages to do is give him a panicked slap on his shoulder. 

wooyoung pulls out of the car waving goodbye and the air is cool and snow is lying heavy on the ground. san waits until he's inside the building to finally curse freely, forehead resting on the steering wheel. his eyes are burning, his head is so fogged and he wants to fucking keep everything in his chest locked away, folded over and over until they became soft and quiet.

it takes him a while to turn the engine on again, but when he does, there's a different song playing on the radio.

silly boy blue. 

_( you wish and wish, and wish again / you've tried so hard to fly )_

he shakes his head and groans. "fucking bowie."


End file.
